


Eclipse

by BawdyBean



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Captivity, Devotion, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mererid is in love with Emhyr and we all know it, Minor Character Death, One-Sided Relationship, Rape, Suicide Attempt, Whump, Witcher Whump Week (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:47:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27186107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BawdyBean/pseuds/BawdyBean
Summary: Mererid awakes to a noise in the night, only to find his entire life- no the entire empire- turned upside down, inside out, and bleeding on the ground. After that night Nilfgaard will never be the same. And slowly over time Mererid loses all hope that his life will ever be a shadow of what it once was. Every word he says seems misconstrued, and his actions may never be his own again.Mererid closes his eyes against the image in the window. Tears threatening to spill finally after all these months, because he had. He had agreed to help. But he hadn’t know it meant this.
Relationships: Mererid (The Witcher)/Original Male Character
Comments: 11
Kudos: 10
Collections: Witcher Whump Week 2020





	Eclipse

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot thank my beta enough for indulging me in rubberducking and editing this darkfic. [bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion) has long spent time making my terrible grammar worthy of all of your eyes, please thank them for me by checking out their work as well, it is nearly all completely fandom blind and so well written.
> 
> This was written for the PiFo Witcher community's Whump Week day 5 prompt: enslaved.
> 
> That said, this is certainly a dark fic, mind the tags and if those things mentioned pose a problem/problems for you then this is not the fic for you and that is alright. I write and enjoy writing a wide variety of things from fluff to dark and feel strongly that all should be out here to be read. For those for whom darkfic speaks to you, then I do hope you enjoy.

A loud crash was the first sign that something was horribly wrong. Mererid threw the covers back and lit the oil lamp on his bedside stand. Black dressing gown sweeping his ankles he ventured into the hall only to find the lamps normally lit there all night long dark, the corridor silent and bereft of its usual guards.

Mererid, shrunk back into his chambers. Something was certainly wrong for the guards to have left their post. Nilfgaardian Imperial Guards held their duties in higher regard than their lives, and nothing came higher than following their orders save the Emperor’s himself. A shiver ran from the base of Mererid’s spine up until it made his hair feel stiff, standing on its ends.

Dressing quickly, Mererid didn’t bother with much. A doublet, braies, trousers and shoes. He ran his fingers through his graying hair and took up his lamp again. Rushing back out the door and down the hall to the Emperor’s office. His Imperial Majesty would certainly require assistance and Mererid would be there to provide it. Great Sun, he could not let Emhyr down in his time of need.

Rushing down the hallway, Mererid passed a broken oil lamp. It’s contents soaking into the plush carpet. Most likely the source of the crash that woke him.

The door to The Emperor’s office was ajar when Mererid hurried up to it and with the barest of knocks he pushed it open. The place was strangely silent, eerily so. Papers were strewn about, scrolls knocked onto the floor and half the candles blown out. One of the glass fronted cabinets was bashed in, smeared with blood, black hair caught in the splintered wood. A large dark stain mottled the floor below it.

In his shock Mererid forget himself entirely. “Emhyr!? Emhyr?! Where are you!?” Mererid ran forward into the room, behind the desk and to the balcony doors—thrown wide open, curtains drifting in the midnight breeze.

 _Click_.

“Var Emreis is no longer, hmm, shall we say _here_.” The door had closed softly behind Mererid and he whirled wildly around, eyes wide with confusion. He quickly brought himself under control though at the sight of Roeland de Wett, bloody and looking deranged.

Roeland’s hand twitched around the pommel of his sword. “Aren’t you a faithful little stronthe though?”

“-beg your pardon, sir-”

“Oh, you can beg for anything you like—later. _Emhyr_ won’t be around to hear you.” Thumb rubbing over the rounded pommel, Roeland left a smear of brownish blood drying there.

Roeland’s crazed smile turned into a disgusting leer, and anger flared up so hot inside Mererid that it overrode all of his courtly manners. “Where is the Emperor of Nilfgaard you bloede schijtleister?”

“Why my dear sweet chamberlain, I’m right in front of you. How could you not recognize your very own Emperor? Now come we’ve so much to work on.” The cloying sickly sound of Roeland’s voice made Mererid’s stomach churn. The smell of blood was suddenly thick in the air around him and Mererid was no longer able to stay on his feet, nor keep his dinner in his stomach.

The light broke through Mererid’s window without warning, jarring him from an already fitful slumber. The Great Sun no longer shone over Nilfgaard, the clouds outside his window obscuring its true light, perhaps gone forever. At least in Mererid’s heart he knew the beauty of Nilfgaard was forever broken without Emhyr. Dark shadowed lines striped his body even as he lay listlessly in bed. Evidence of the bars now decorating the windows if his room. His _prison cell_ more like.

Mererid did not kid himself.

“Get up you fool.” The servant girl’s rough whisper scraped at Mererid’s ears. “Lucky the Emperor hasn’t hanged you for your insolence yet.”

That jolted a dry mirthless laugh out of him. Mererid remembered hearing Emhyr speak of a witcher once as insolent with a rather, fond, note in his voice. The sudden thought of Emhyr made Mererid’s lower lip quiver. 

No. No, Emhyr would hate to see him in such a state. Mererid would not cry for his Emperor. Honor his memory in any way he could, yes. Shed a tear over such a glorious leader and man, no. Hiding his snuffle as a runny nose, Mererid rose from the bed and began his day. Chamberlain in name only now, he was confined to his quarters at all times except when the False Emperor called for him. And yet he was expected, no required upon pain of punishment, to be dressed and ready for his station at all times of the day. Only his nights were his own— if Mererid could consider them that. 

All personal effects and anything that might have made his room feel like home had long since been removed. Sometime around the end of the first two weeks, after Mererid had personally been forced to witness the execution of many of the house staff as punishment for refusing to be ready for the day, he had decided that life in this place that was no longer Nilfgaard was not worth living. It had been easy in his mind, to peel the gold ferrule from one of the paintbrushes Emhyr had gifted him on the holidays.

They’d already torn down and taken away his paintings of Emhyr anyway.

Bending the gold back and forth over and over until it broke off sharp took little effort. And it bit into the skin of his wrist even easier. Mererid laid down on his bed ready to let go.

But The False Emperor wasn’t ready to let him go yet, not so easily. 

Mererid woke with a start and a gasp, stitches itching in his wrists, tied to his bedposts with a guard posted at his side. And then he didn’t even have the brushes Emhyr had gifted him anymore.

With no desire to do _anything_ , Mererid spent his time in his rooms reading the books The False Emperor delivered. Boring topics like horsemanship, how to breed better livestock, and ceramics. What good was that? Mererid would never see the outside let alone a potters wheel. It only stoked his anger some days, and stoked his despair others.

Every day without fail at some point The False Emperor would call for Mererid. It was a show, a display of force in so many ways. To Mererid and to the greater empire. 

Mererid was always escorted to Emhyr’s—no Emhyr was no more—to the Emperor’s Office by an armed guard. The knife in his back more physical than metaphorical for a few moments. Once he was inside it was all smiles and politeness but as had always been protocol there were two armed Impera, one on each side of the door, stoic as rocks.

They were not the Impera who had guarded Emhyr, those were all dead now. Slaughtered for not swearing fealty to the New Usurper. Even those who did swear fealty were murdered as they bowed down. A display The False Emperor said, of how all Impera should be ready to die at any time for their Emperor. Then new Impera were installed. Along with new staff. More and more new faces emerged and often Mererid imaged it was after some slight he’d given that another maid would be gone, replaced in the night.

Sometimes The False Emperor requested Mererid sit to the side and talk, which was difficult. Mererid wanted nothing more than to vomit on the man’s polished boots. Other times he merely requested his silent presence, to be served tea as Mererid once did for Emhyr, which was easier to handle. His hands shook but he could control it until The False Emperor took the cup before Mererid was ready and let his fingers brush over Mererid’s.

Mererid recoiled immediately. “Sorry, si- Your majesty. The tea is very hot, please be careful.” Barely catching himself, Mererid backed away from the desk heart thundering in his chest, and disgust roiling in his gut. 

_Years_. Years. He had waited with baited breathed. Hoped that one day Emhyr would let such an act slip out. Return Mererid’s affection in even the slightest way. He knew deep down that Emhyr would not. Could not, for the sake of the empire and so he buried himself in caring for Emhyr in every other way he could.

And now here this filthy pig of a usurper— if the tales were to be believed— and Mererid had seen the aftermath, he knew it to be true. The very hand that had murdered his beloved Emperor, thought Mererid would allow such an advance.

“Apologies. The error was mine dear Mererid.” Mererid’s mind spun at the oily words. It was impossible for this, this thief of the throne to have true regret. This was a trick. It had to be.

“Don’t be Your Majesty, I should have moved.” The words fell from Mererid’s mouth in courtly practice before he could stop himself and he stared at the floor shaken. _No. I shouldn’t have moved. I shouldn’t have apologized._ There should have been rage but there was only shock and close behind it the fear of having been to weak.  
Mererid’s thoughts tumbled about in his mind. _Emhyr would never have- I’d have welcomed it if he did._ His own running thought cut him off, and Mererid trembled slightly in place.

That was the first time, but hardly the last.

Teeth clenched so tight Mererid can hear the creak of his jaw he says nothing when The False Emperor’s hand drifts lower over the sagging curve of his buttocks. “Not bad for an old man. I see why someone might have been fond of you.” Mererid’s eyes are fixed at some lost point on the wall, a crack in the hardwood paneling that he cannot even bring into focus anymore. The squeeze is rough enough to leave a bruise later. “Firm, but with a little bit of padding. Not as much as there was when I acquired you. You will eat more.”

“Yes your majesty.” It’s a dry, disinterested whisper. One of Mererid’s hands grips the other viciously in front of himself. 

The door opens with a swish and jovial voices break into Mererid’s tense concentration, threatening to make him lose all control. The False Emperor takes far too long to let his hand fall and though Mererid doesn’t bother to move his eyes over to see their company, he is sure they have seen him. Seen him being fondled like a quarter-mark harlot. The hot brand the of the New Usurper’s hand stays on his skin, his trousers holding the heat there long after they all take their seats around the desk. Mererid stands.

The jovial voices turn angry and thick, sour with the sound of annoyance. Mererid has long since stopped listening, there is no point. There never was, Emhyr is dead. Mererid will never know how Emhyr’s hands would have felt heating up his skin but he is sure it would never have been like this. Emhyr would have been tender, gentle. Emhyr is dead. Mererid only ever wanted Emhyr’s touch, never another man’s and certainly not this bloede d'yaebl. He does not want this. But Emhyr is dead, and Mererid is powerless to stop it.

A fist pounds into the wooden desk. “Sheyss!”

Mererid jerks his head up and over, he’s not sure when it happened but the room is empty save the Impera, the Impostor and himself. The Impera are motionless as always, but to Mererid they appear even more still than usual in the face of The False Emperor’s wrath. Everything is still a degree blurry, watery on the edges, and Mererid fails to see the fire in the New Usurper’s eyes as they fall on him.

“Mererid. I have been frustrated by this mess, left angry. I will require your assistance to relax, you can help with that, yes? Fetch me tea.” The False Emperor stretches his legs out under the desk and puts his arms over his head watching Mererid’s every move.

“Yes, of course, Your Majesty.” Again it is but a dry whisper and Mererid moves tightly. Out the door where he immediately picks up a guard for a tail. Through to the kitchens to retrieve the boiling water and back to the office.

Mererid’s hands always shake now when he serves tea and he cannot stop them. It is no use trying, it will only slow him down and anger The False Emperor more.

The tea steeps. Mererid waits, counting the time in his head until it is time to strain and pour. The thin porcelain cup comes to rest in the saucer just as The False Emperor’s hand touches in his in their revolting dance. Mererid slips his hand out and removes himself to stand to the side of the desk again. Finds the crack in the hardwood with his eyes and tries to see through it.

Mererid doesn’t notice The False Emperor moving until rough hands push at his hips. Turning him forcefully toward the side of the desk, and shoving him up against it.

“Sir! Sto-” Mererid’s head rings with hit to the side of it. The room swims and his belt is loosened and dropped to the floor.

“I- Am- Not- Your _Sir_! I am your Majesty! Your _Emperor_!” The heal of a hand thumps painfully into Mererid’ back between his shoulder blades and the force of it brings him down onto the desk, head turned to the side, ears still ringing. Trousers yanked down around his knees, hobbling him even further Mererid gapes open-mouthed at his reflection in balcony door. “And you will serve me, please me, the same way you would have him. Understand?” The hand on Mererid’s back shakes him roughly. “Because you agreed you would _help me relax_.”

Mererid closes his eyes against the image in the window. Tears threatening to spill finally after all these months, because he had. He had agreed to help. But he hadn’t know it meant this.

The drawer to his left rattles open and oil spills on Mererid’s ass. A minute mercy isn the Black Sun of all that Nilfgaard has become. At the first burning breach of two fingers Mererid screams. Harsh and dry, croaking with misery. Scrambling across the desk in a bid to escape the pain, the tea set goes flying off the edge and shatters in a hundred pieces on the floor and Mererid bucks up with a sudden strength.

Emhyr would _never have done this_ , “You are nothing like him!” Mererid’s thoughts scream out of his mind unbidden into the sordid hot office air and a hand rains down back and forth on the back of his head leaving him dizzy. A weak moan of pain slips out as The False Emperor’s hands grasp his hips in a bruising hard grip and drag him back to the edge of the desk. One hand gathers Mererid’s wrists in its hard grasp, pinning them down to the small of his back with the weight of The False Emperor holding them down.

The two fingers return, breaching Mererid roughly again and he gasps for air like a blind fish drawn up from the deep sea. Everything hurts. His hips, his head, his back, his bum. Mererid can hardly breath as they are worked inside him. Pushing deeper, curling inward, stretching wide. Something slick and blunt replaces them and Mererid belatedly wishes he could have the fingers back. They would be better than what is to come.

Mererid cries. He cannot help it. He is too weak. He is being split apart and it is a cruel parody of his deepest fantasies. The nights he had brought himself pleasure to the thought of this very desk, him splayed over it and worshiped to tears by Emhyr, blend and blur away. Replaced by the horrid reality of being forced open, taken right here, on this very same desk. And Emhyr is dead.

His tears land on the parchment below him, the dry ink soaking them up and spreading out. The False Emperor thrusts into him with fervor now. Mumbling and swearing under his breath. It hurts. Emhyr would never have hurt him and Mererid tries to go away in his head, to hide in the knowledge that Emhyr was a good man, who would have treated him with compassion if they could ever have been— no. Mererid does not want to think about that, not with this grotesque Impostor rutting in his ass.

“I’m sorry-” Mererid’s whisper ends in a choked sob. He blocks out the grunts and moans, and worse the praise, from the New Usurper as he sweats over him. He sends his apology up to Emhyr instead. Blinks his tears away and watches them fall on the parchment. The False Emperor—no, he has a name, Roeland de Wett, bloede bastard— presses into Mererid hard and lets out a relieved sound. Wet heat fills Mererid’s insides and he almost vomits. 

Blinking again, Mererid focuses on the ink running on the parchments underneath him on the desk. Two words catch his eyes. The third has been mostly blotted out by his tears. _EMHYR IS ALI_.

 _Impossible_. Mererid had seen the bod- no, he’d seen the blood. There was no body. 

He’s left on the desk, alone, covered in a cold sweat under the watchful eyes of the a guard to arrange his clothes and make his way back to his rooms. Mererid manages, just barely, but he knows now. He _knows_.

**Author's Note:**

> Nilfgaardian translations:
> 
> stronthe- shit  
> bloede- bloody (something of a Nilfgaardian equivalent to fucking, used for emphasis)  
> schijtleister- coward  
> d'yaebl- devil  
> sheyss- damnit


End file.
